“Yo son. The Celica is definitely tight, son.” His contacts made his eyes the same hue of blue as the sapphire on the
Prague crown jewels. Dark-skinnedidid Rob Bacon was the owner of a lovely red Acura Integra that I had once posed in front of for a picture prior to a a raucous evening at the Ritz. I was intending on false-flagging as if it were mine for sake of the photo, not knowing it belonged to him, the same guy I later showed the picture to. The little light-skinnedidid mulatto guy in the back,
Amahl Grant, who just so happens to be
the best photographer I know, says, “Yeah, it’s tight, nigga. But you know you way too big for this bitch.” Maybe he's right. It's just that the other model we test drove signifies "family man", which doesn't really represent my cosmopolitan lifestyle. Per contra to that, it did fall in line a little better than "rice rocket" ever would. Considering both of their opines as I get out the car, I throw the keys back to the
Toyota salesman and tell him that I’ll take the
2000 Camry; in black of course.
The decision was partly due to brand loyalty. I used to own an ’87 Camry that served me quite well despite the fact I treated it like shit. Sort of like my bitches. I dubbed that car “Captain Diesel”. Not due to the fuel it required, but rather due to the fact that I ran it into the ground and got in several accidents, none of which were my fault. No matter how extensive the damage inflicted, the car kept ticking. I remember back then when I got mad I’d kick the side panel of Captain Diesel and rust would fall from the cracks near the bottom of the doors. Towards the end of its servitude, Captain Diesel required as many jugs of water that could fit in the trunk because of a temperamental radiator that needed a fresh gallon to be poured in it before you could start it. The passenger side window was gone due to a fiend or a teenager, I can’t tell you which since the two parties commit similar low-paying, idiotic crimes, that broke the window to take a pack of Black & Milds from my car seat. The doors didn’t lock, so whoever broke the window could have merely checked the door first. Captain Diesel had one good headlight so it looked like a motorcycle from dead on in the twilight. Since the antenna had been broke off, the radio didn’t work; but radio sucks anyhow, so that was of no consequence. My Kool G. Rap & DJ Polo cassette, Live and Let Die, was stuck in the player; thank God it was a classic, rolling album and not no tape of my ladyfriend's, or no bullshit like that. I knew death was inevitable when the gas tank began to leak while the engine was running idle. Imagine at the light stop, there's a guy next to you. "Hey Pal. Your car's leaking fuel." "Yeah thanks. I know." The day it didn’t start I took off the plates then removed the battery and put it in my 1981 Ford Econoline van that I was living out of at the time with my ladyfriend at the time. I left Captain Diesel in the old Giant Eagle parking lot at 3rd and Rhode Island NW. It got towed about three months later.
The other reason for my purchase was due to my initiation into the Secret Society of Good Credit. Having finally paid off all of the bad checks that I wrote for Polo garments in the early nineties, I was shocked to learn that my credit union decided to give me a car loan. Aight, it’s on. My salary wasn’t large enough to get anything too fly, but I definitely wanted a new car, so the 2000 Camry in black with the V6 engine, sunroof and leather seats became the new chariot I rode into battle. Like all new toys, I did an admirable job of keeping my ride in top-notch condition. Vacuumed and washed it once a week; the oil got changed every three months or 3000 miles, whichever one came sooner; diagnostic check-ups were the habit and even Armor-All for the tires was kept in the trunk. Considering the fact that I never once washed Captain Diesel, I was post-it-on-the-refrigerator-proud-as-fuck of myself for maintaining this car better than any of my previous relationships with my former bitches. Unlike R. Kelly the women didn't remind me of my car, as my car was more logical and always started up when I wanted her to.
I have heard a few folks, usually women, make comments likely learned in some sophistic school of thought, claiming that I can’t drive. What they don’t realize is that on the East Coast the average speed is always faster than the posted speed. Most have heard the expression, “Faster than a New York minute.” So, considering this statement to be true, it shouldn’t be hard to comprehend that since everything else moves faster, including people’s pace of walking, fashion, trends, the hot song and even the transfer of money, naturally then, so does the traffic. It's cutthroat. In New York they are much more adept at it. Someone sees an opening, they don’t hesitate… BOOM! They take it! As a driver coming from Cleveland, this was the antithesis to how we cruised the blocks. There’s no need to rush like that in the C-Town. Most keep a gingerly pace, cause most really ain’t got shit too pertinent to do. Cities in the rest of the country usually don’t seem to be on that frantic, ambitious, caffeine-driven mode. In Cleveland I used to keep it suave, playing some UGK, in no rush whatsoever, hitting the corner one more time to see the booty from behind. Nowadays I go back to Cleveland and cuss out everyone in front of me as I have synergized with the tempo of I-95 and the eastern most cities that it traverses through. With that said, Washington DC becomes a beast all its own. Imagine, the East Coast impatience for traffic coupled with the second worst traffic in the nation multiplied by the presence of drivers from the world over, most of whom have just recently moved in the errea, most of whom are scary-ass, sub par drivers. The shit equals disaster. So as crazy as folks think I drive, it’s because one must drive as such in DC. However, the truly astute ones will notice that I never tailgate. My driving style is calculated with such precision that a novice may miss the science behind it. Defense wins games.
I’m driving Captain Diesel down Connecticut Avenue NW, back in the Howard days, with my dark-skinnedidid homie Jamiel (“Damn player. That ass is on swoll.”) riding shotty and the aforementioned Amahl riding in the backseat. We had just come from the CD/Game Exchange in Tenleytown and it was getting fairly late so we were trying to get back to Slowe Hall with the quickness; muthafuckas had pussy to get. I’m tearing down the block, weaving in and out the track like four African women doing one head of micro braids. Maneuvering nothing too wild, yet nothing too tame, again, like my bitches. At one point I zip from the farthest most right lane to the center lane headed southbound. There was a slow-moving car ahead of me, so I glance at the left side view and see that I’m good to go on that side. I zip over into the left most southbound lane and hit the gas. As soon as I hit the gas I realize that there is a stationary car about 50 feet in front of me that is making a left turn in a spot where it shouldn’t. I look at the speedometer. I'm doing about 43mph. Then I look back over to the middle lane to the right of me, but by this time I have caught up to the slow-moving car which is riding right next to me, followed by a car that was tailgating him. At this point there’s no escape on the right side. I move my ken to the rear view where I see that if I stop, I’m about to get rear-ended something deadly by a SuperShuttle van. All this took about three seconds to process. By the time my brain hit the fourth second, I risked all of our lives by passing the stationary car in front of me to the left of it, which just so happened to be the fast lane for the Northbound, oncoming traffic. I said “Insha’Allah” to myself and cut over into the oncoming traffic. Allah was willing cause I was able to blindly dart into the oncoming lane to my left and have enough time to cut back to the right in front that fucking idiot trying to turn left. No one said shit for like 26 seconds until Amahl was like, “Damn nigga. You can drive your ass off.” Now, I do realize that defensive driving could have kept me out of that situation, but the point of the matter is, forced into the situation, I ain’t nut-up and end up killing us all. I kept my cool and the result was three homies lowering their adrenaline levels through the therapy of laughter. This is not the only time I have maneuvered as such, but no need to get redundant with it. You all get the point. The kid can drive.
But, somewhat like a fiend that’s been walking the straight and narrow for years, as soon as they get that first bump, its back to the fast lane. I got my first bump on the Camry while en route to work back during my Mason days. As I was getting onto I-295 from Landover Road, a van in front of me, for whatever reason, stopped abruptly in front of me on the on ramp where they should have just kept proceeding. The van’s actions took me by surprise, but since I don’t ride muthafuckas’ asses on the road, I was able to stop and keep from ramming into this dude’s bumper. Not so for the woman that was riding my ass though. BLAOW!!! I glance back in the rear at a lady, that was probably on the deaconess board, cussing like a sailor. Then I see the white van that could’ve passed for the alleged vehicle of choice of the DC snipers, about 70 feet away about to pull onto I-295 South with no concern over the accident that it had caused, but wasn't legally responsible for. I got out the car to exchange insurance information. The lady says to me, “Did you get that car’s license?” I says, “Yeah actually I did, but it doesn’t matter.” “Why not?” “Cause Ma’am, I didn’t hit that car. You hit me, and whoever hits someone from behind is always at fault.” She looked like she wanted to spit in my face and says, “Who are you? A lawyer?” I look at her with my insurance card in hand and say, “Nah. Just an educated Negro.” Turns out the lady had Geico, and like the ads claim, their customer service was phenomenal. I rode to the estimate shop over on Baltimore Avenue and within ten minutes I had a check for $1400 in my hands. I went to Amsterdam three weeks later. Somehow, that dent remained in my bumper.
After that, my formerly fresh Camry went the way of Captain Diesel. The next act of destruction took place in Cleveland rolling down Euclid when I fell asleep at the wheel with B-Roc riding shotty at about 7am. I woke up abruptly with my hood looking like an open sardine can under the rear end of what looked to be a Sanford and Son truck. The guy gets out and looks at my car and is like, “Good luck with that.” and drives off with his steel bumper spotless. Yeah, we had been inebriated earlier, but that was far earlier, probably at about 1am. Any buzz I had was long gone by the time of the accident. We had been over Chuck Dukie’s crib shooting the shit and watching movies and I merely passed out due to fatigue and sleep deprivation, not being drunk. At the time I was staying at my pop’s house, and where he believed me, I know that till this day my stepmother thinks I was high as Lebron dunking over Rasheed Wallace in game 3. A few months after that I fell asleep while driving on the Baltimore-Washington Turnpike. The sound of my left side view mirror being ripped off by a sign woke me up. Quickly I calculated that I was veering off the road, with my left arm out the window nonetheless, so I very calmly steered the Camry off of the median’s grass, across the rubble of the shoulder and back onto the asphalt. I delved into an apathetic state with my car. I’d bump the shit out of people whilst parallel parking; my bumper looked like Hell Rell’s face, who’da noticed another scratch or dent? I’ve gone through five side view mirrors so far and one day on I-95 en route to Philly, a pebble hit the windshield and now there’s a crack that keeps growing across it that looks like horizontal lightning. I got so fed up, the day I paid the Camry off, I took out a Krink marker and tagged up my dashboard. This always created a topic of inquiry within women. “Why would you do that to your car?” “Who cares? It’s just a fucking car.” The DUI didn’t help any either. To make a very long story short, (since this event is in itself a chapter for a later date) I blacked out and blasted into a parked Benz. When the police found me around the corner I had no recollection of the accident. The six months of my suspended license were probably good though as I didn’t get into any automobile accidents.
I had been doing an excellent job keeping the Camry out of harm’s way for about two years. All that ended about a fortnight ago. There’s a spot in Clarendon, Virginia creatively called the Clarendon Ballroom. I met my homie Mike and his woman Kate there. Evidently Kate had some friends of hers that she was bringing along. The legend for the last few months was that her girls were really cool and they’d be down for interviewing a yungplure such as myself. I got there and was pleased by the Clarendon Ballroom which was exactly what it said it was, but none too pleased with Kate’s girls as they were a little too bleached and blond for me. It seemed that I was probably too big and black for them, so everything was working fine thus far. Mike was egging me on to try and buss out my killer dance routines on the floor with Kate’s girls, but that would have been wasted time on both of our parts. I started to do my dancefloor Indy with the bar serving as the pit stop. After about the fourth lap and refueling, I catch the eye of a bad-ass Ethiopian thanger giving me the Medusa. I decide to walk by her and she reaches out and grabs my hand and leads me around to her ass which was an entity all its own. This girl was ridiculously zaftig; her lower body was incredibly powerful and made her look like she could’ve taken over for Atlas while he went on a smoke break. Her calves were the size of an Abercrombie girl's thighs and she didn’t suffer from cankles, so it looked lovely. I thought I had the world in my hands, but it was only her left and right asscheeks. Those Ethiopian, Eritrean and Somalian girls are so fucking banging and always got a gang of ass. After we get down for a while, she introduces herself. “Whatup girl? I’m Chad.” “What’s your name?” "Chad. Like Central Africa.” She had an extremely drunk Ethiopian girlfriend with her that said I was cute and commenced to kissing me on the lips. The thick jont didn’t even trip as she said, “She does that all the time.” Word. Mike, Kate and friends leave and I wave to them, since my evening has suddenly presented itself with some options and opportunity. Most of the thick jont's girls leave save for the very drunk one who we had to accompany to her car. She was insistent on driving, so much so that not even the Clarendon policeman could convince her to quit looking for her car and to just get into the thick jont's ride. After forcing the drunk Ethiopian girl in the Thick jont’s car with the policeman, I tell her it was good meeting her and to get her friend home safely. She tells me to get in the back seat cause she ain’t finished with me yet. Being a prudent student, I followed her orders. We dropped off the drunk Ethiopian broad and headed back to her spot were I spent the next few hours slapping it up, flipping it and rubbing it down. The thick jont was on the same tip as me and gave me the number but said that I couldn’t spend the night. No problem. I really didn’t want to be all booed-up anyhow even though this girl put an F350 to shame with her extended cab. Anyhow, I had a plane to catch to the ATL at 8am. She swooped me back over to Clarendon where my car was parked, gave me a really sloppy nasty-ass kiss and bit my lip until she drew blood, said “Call me” and peeled off.
I was feeling like a fucking winner. Not only did I get some pussy, I got some new pussy and the pussy was good. That adds up to the best type of pussy you can get. And as an added bonus I got to check another race off of my Ethnic Pussy Checklist. I smelt my left index and middle fingers and got in the Camry. As I was coming across the Key Bridge, I decided to take the quick route home, that being the Whitehurst Freeway to the Rock Creek Park. I exited off the Key Bridge still smelling my fingers which were now locked in a gun formation. For whatever reason as I accelerated onto the Whitehurst a thought popped into my head, “It’s been a long fucking time since I hit a hundred in this bitch.” Without further contemplation I floored it. Now, it’s important to know the science behind this Evil Knievel stunt that I was attempting to pull. At its longest, the Whitehurst is 0.8 miles long. From my entrance point I probably missed about 0.1 miles of that, so my runway was at the most 0.7 miles. About 0.1 miles from the exit which leads to K Street NW, there’s a fork in the road which creates a hellified curve going either way. I forgot about this. I also forgot that the Whitehurst is elevated as well, probably about 30 feet from Water Street NW, which lies directly below. A 2000 Camry with the V6 engine accelerates from 0-60 in the low 7 second range. Now, I’m no physicist so I don’t know the proper formula for acceleration, but I do know that I certainly did end up hitting 100mph. However, I hit it nowhere in time for me to stop the car before reaching that fork. While trying to slow down I ram into the guard rail on the left. My car hits so hard that it starts to go up along the side of the guardrail on some Bo and Luke Duke shit. At this point I seriously thought that I was going to fall into the chasm that would’ve had me and the Camry falling 30 feet down to Water Street. By the grace of God, the Camry veers back to the right, bashes into the other guard rail and slowly comes to a halt at the bottom of the Whitehurst. I get out to see a dude waiting at the light headed towards K Street NW looking at me in utter disbelief. “Are you alright?” “Never better,” I said as I got out of the captain’s chair, “thanks for asking.” My hood was pointed straight up to the heavens, possibly as a hint as to why I was still walking at that moment. The front was completely rammed in and there were all sorts of white scratch marks on the left side where my car had ran against the guard rail. I looked around. No police. Fuck it. I put the hood down and quickly discovered that if I hit more than 30mph, it would fly back up again. So I tied the hood to the grill with a shoelace and drove the Rock Creek Parkway slow as fuck all the way to the crib. I got out and looked at my car for about five minutes wondering why in the fuck I had just did this.
Needless to say I overslept and missed my plane to Atlanta. After purchasing another one way ticket and arriving in the ATL, I was awestruck by the southern hospitality of the beautiful sisters that actually smile and speak to you if you offer up conversation. I completely forgot all about the whole incident until two days later when me and my homie, DJ Reemycks, saw an accident go down on Spring Street. I tell Mycks the whole truth that I just told y’all and he looks at me like I’ve got somewhat of a problem. “You sure are rather nonchalant about the whole thang.” “Who cares?” I said right back, rather nonchalantly. “It’s just a fucking car.”
After bidding farewell to the boy Sammy D and his sister Kate on their voyage to Martha’s Vineyard, I went back to Harrison’s crib to let the corned hash and corned beef omelet from the Florida Avenue Grill get broke up by enzymes and to even later, quite possibly, take a shit. Chilling on the porno couch, chiefing and getting my Nintendo DS on took a toll on this Econoline, so I put the head back and fell out for a few. I got woken up by Harrison’s roommate and his crew, Wadeh the Devil’s Advocate, Jomo the Party Facilitator, Tion the Weatherman and his girlfriend, Diana the Asian Girl So Fine That You Really Don’t Wanna Look At Her Cause You Don’t Wanna Disrespect The Dude She’s With Who Just So Happens To Be Your Boy’s Boy. They had been at Wonderland fucking with the brunch and the bottomless Mimosas. Anyhow, bottles get to clanking, shots get to making, fools get to dranking. Fired up the grill and set up the Beer Pong table and commenced to playing some highly competitive matches. Sheena the Girl That Turns Girls Out came through while muthafuckas was on the topic of intersexual relations. Diana thought that to have sex with someone, you should be in love with that certain someone. Me and Wadeh thought her to be completely inane. We was both on some no relationship type shit; merely an understanding, a handshake and a swift reaming was all that was needed. Tion feigned sleep. Jomo suggested we play one last game of Beer Pong, but then he backed out and Sheena played my partner. Holding a ping-pong ball after a long unfinished Wimbledon-esque set with me and Sheena versus Tion and Diana with one cup apiece left I told the opposing team, “Listen. Nah, really. Listen. This was an incredible Beer Pong match. You guys are pros. This shit should’a been on ESPN2. No matter who wins this shit, I respect you two both as human beings and as Beer Pong players.” Then I sunk the shot. After that, we watched that new episode of Entourage when they made Medellín. I liked it. Not really sure what erryone else thought. Jomo, this time suggests we all head off to the House. For those that don’t know, the House is a strip club on Georgia Avenue NW. They used to call it the Penthouse, but due to recolonization, they had to give the strip club a more “family-friendly” euphemism. Now the children of the neighborhood have no idea what goes on in there. Now, strip clubs really ain’t my thing. I will however, go once in a very blue moon if that’s the mob mentality. Sheena says she’s never been to one. We says, “Sunday is the perfect night to go. It’ll be empty and low-keyed. Plus it’s late.” Sheena agrees and after Jomo throws up, we leave. Tion, Diana and Jomo walked there and me and Sheena drove in her car cause we got it like that.
Me and Sheena get to the House and it looks like a rap video with budget constraints. There’s only about 12 total people in the House. After I got frisked, they go through Sheena’s purse and we get ushered over to the bar. The House’s bar is below ground level; the bartender is right at fellatio height. While there’s no cover at the House, you do have to purchase a drink. I ask the bartender for two Sapphires and Tonic. Somebody’s momma who was playing the bartender told me they ain’t got no Bombay Sapphire. God damn it. Fuck it then, Tanqueray. We go and see the homies sitting by the stage up front. I ask Diana which one she likes the best and she points to the most fit girl of the lot. The House keeps some Clydesdales. I look at Sheena and she’s got a look on her face as if evil is looming and has its cross hairs on her virgin eyes. Jomo leans over and tells me, “You see AI over there with the Corona?” What? A-who? I turn around towards the seating area just in front of the stage, and lo-and-fucking-behold it’s Allen Iverson, fellow Georgetown attendee. I only know of a single AI At Georgetown story that my boy told me. Evidently, my boy is in an upper level literature class and it’s the day of the final. AI is sitting in the first seat near the wall, right by the door. All he has on his desk is a sharpened, yellow, wooden #2 pencil and a bluebook. That pencil better be pretty fucking sharp, AI. The professor hands out the final and people get into it. My boy can’t stop looking over to see what AI is doing. AI ain’t doing shit. Just chilling. My boy gets back to his final, not really being able to concentrate since he wants to know what Iverson is doing. He looks over again and AI’s got his head down on the desk, kindergarten-nap style, with that pencil point sharp as a Tokugawa dotanuki and that bluebook with a fresh-ass, uncreased spine like the King James text in a Buddhist’s crib. My boy says he has to fight laughing so he turns the opposite way in his desk so as not to get a glimpse of Iverson. After about a ten minute nap, AI, refreshed, gets up and leaves without the sharp #2 and the mint condition bluebook and he don’t come back.
AI is in the House with two of his homies. He looked more like a rapper than a basketball player. Oh yeah, that’s right. He is a rapper. All three of them have a fresh Corona with the lime perched on top the bottleneck in front of them. AI was chatting with the lady that seemed to be running the House. She goes off to do AI’s bidding as he reaches down into a mop bucket full of ones and grabs a wad of singles and flings them up on the stripper in front of him with the same face I used to have throwing salt on the driveway during the winter as a teenager. Then he does it again. The head of the House comes back with two more buckets full of what looks like straight from the mint singles. Three strippers are in front of AI’s crew popping pussy to such a degree, you would have thought that they thought, “If we stop popping this pussy, we die.” All the while the crew keep throwing bales of one’s at the ladies. I turn back to Sheena who really looks very disturbed. “You know that’s Allen Iverson, right?” “Who’s he?” “He used to go to Georgetown.” “Oh. Has he written anything I would have read?” “Write? He’s a basketball player. They can’t write, girl.” I look around the club and notice that back towards the mirror there are about five neat little mounds of ones all gathered up like leaves. I got up and tipped the stripper performing the farthest away from AI cause I felt bad for her. She wasn't within the ken of the flying singles. The girl was thick as hell and polite as only a stripper trying to get your money can be. She was like, “Thank you.” I’m like, “Nah. Thank you. You’re the talented one.” Two dollars will buy you an F-350 getting shook in your face for 97 seconds. I’d say that’s worth it. After I sat back down I decided to bully Sheena into tipping a stripper. Since she looked so uncomfortable I figured that it would do her good to fully immerse herself in the environment. After six minutes of coercion she finally apprehensively walked over and slinked a bill toward the girl that Diana thought was fit. She sat back down beside me and I ask her, “That wasn’t that bad was it?” She’s like, “It’s weird. I don’t think I’m this sort of person.” I smile at innocence destroyed and turn back to AI who is still flinging his McDuck stack to the strippers. There was one stripper butt-naked on her back with her thick-ass calves hoisted behind her shoulders, playing with her labia; all the while, steady popping that pussy. At that moment, AI’s boy, the one closest to me who looked like Slim Thug, sprung out of his seat and with his right hand bent down and scooped up a grip of singles like a shortstop with no time to make the play with the gloved hand. Then he pulls up and whips the wad hard as fuck, target dead-on, smack-dab, right at the stripper’s pussy. The bills hit the coochie with a loud-ass “THWAPP!!!” and dollars go flying everywhere like the safe got blown. Singles was confetti flipping in air and then landing on the stripper and the stage. You’da thought Bush just won a third term in office. Homegirl was still popping that pussy, but she quit massaging her labia so she could grab the bills before they hit the stage. AI and crew thought this to be the funniest shit since Martin and they all jump out their seats laughing loud as fuck. “Now that’s how you do ‘em!” yells AI’s boy while triple-dapping up AI. I look over at Sheena and implement my super power, that being my keen telepathic abilities…
